


faith in ever after

by rodrikstark



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Banter, Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Female Reader, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kid Fic, Mentions of Blood, Pining, Post-Blip, Post-Infinity War, Steve Rogers Feels, Swearing, i mean i think it's canon compliant if you squint, mentions of sibling death, reader has a nephew, set within the endgame 5 year time jump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28649685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rodrikstark/pseuds/rodrikstark
Summary: apparently, steve rogers leads the group therapy session you signed up for. you really shouldn’t take your anger out on him.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 38





	1. enemies

**Author's Note:**

> “enemies” to friends to lovers set within the endgame time jump. realistically i think there should have been some public backlash against SR after he becomes a fugitive, reappears years later, but ultimately fails to stop the blip. this fic explores that i guess? title from “love will come and find me again” (bandstand).

You nudge open the squeaky door of the multipurpose room and try to seem unfazed by the soft conversation halting at the appearance of a newcomer. As the chatting starts up again, your downturned gaze fixes on the folding table three feet away, scattered with name tags and a couple of Sharpies.

You scribble your name and look towards the circle of plastic chairs centered in the room. Out of the several people there, only one person stands, this huge guy with superhero shoulders handing out paper cups with water. He turns to someone to chuckle at their joke, revealing his face, and your brain can’t work fast enough to stop your mouth as you blurt, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

He blinks, turning to you. “Are you here for the session?” Confused, but with kind eyes. _Bastard._

“No.” You spin on your heels, toss your name tag in the trash can tucked into the corner of the room, and walk out.

You’ve already repeatedly punched the crosswalk button when Captain America catches up to you. You glance back at him, the fog of his breath obscuring his face somewhat. “Wait, can we talk?”

You squint at the bright headlights travelling down each side of the road, making calculations to see if you can cross early to avoid conversation with this guy. You lean forward to take a step but decide against risking your life. Plus, he could just follow you; walking into oncoming traffic wouldn’t pose a threat to him in the slightest.

“You should really advertise that you lead that support group,” you say with acid. “Like, front and center, big font, all caps. So you don’t waste people’s time.”

“I wanted to be low-key.” He watches you press the button a half dozen more times.

“Wonder why,” you whisper. “Fuck, I hired a babysitter and everything.” Across the street, the countdown begins. You shove your hands into your jacket pockets as you step off the sidewalk.

He follows after you, easily keeping pace even though you’re walking as fast as you can. “Who was it for you?” The question everyone asks everyone since the Blip.

You laugh, tasting bitterness on your tongue. “None of your business, Captain America.” In the distance, you can see where you parked your car on the street. You can make it.

He takes two big steps and then appears in front of you. You stop. His height makes you dizzy; his solidness contrasts with the brisk wind whipping at your hair and long coat. “I’m not that guy.” He frowns at you, and you briefly think about punching him in the face. You’re shorter, and smaller, and weaker, but he wouldn’t expect it, probably. “You can call me Steve. I just want to talk.”

You scoff. “Please move out of the way so I can get to my car, _asshole_.”

“Oh, c’mon. You showed up for a reason. You’re not gonna tell me who you lost?” He asks softly, but he doesn’t hesitate to get right to the point, and it makes you wince.

You breathe, counting to three. “My sister, and her husband. They had a kid. No other family in the picture. Only me.” It almost feels good to say it, and you’re gunning to make him feel bad, but the way his lip twitches has you staring down at your boots.

“She lived in like, totally perfect suburbia outside of the city, then it all fell to shit. Thought her husband made it until I got the call.” _Shut up shut up shut up._ “Figured being an aunt just meant showing up every once in a while with a cool toy or some cash and sneaking him alcohol at family parties when he’s a teenager.” You kick a piece of ice stuck on the sidewalk and you both listen to it rattle away. “Not…”

You hate how angry you sound. If anyone heard you talking this bitterly about your nephew, you’d feel guilty as hell.

Cap shrinks back a little, but not enough to convince you that he’ll walk back to the center and leave you alone. “I uh—I’m sorry.” You notice a movement in the corner of your eye, as he makes a fist within his jacket pocket, then relaxes it. He speaks quietly now. “I lost people too.” He pauses before asking, “How old is he? The kid?”

You look up at his face. Genuine curiosity shines through all the broodiness, and you can tell that he would have asked you these questions if you had just shut off your ego for one night and stayed for the group session.

You know that everyone lost someone, and Steve Rogers didn’t personally turn half the world into dust. But, sometimes, the unfairness of it all burned in your heart, that your sister disintegrated before your eyes in a second, that you became a pseudo-mother in a day, that you lost your whole life plan in a month. You’ve floundered as a single parent to a child you never asked for, juggling more trauma between the both of you than you know how to deal with.

You have no idea how Captain America actively consoles other people, when you could hardly console yourself.

You swallow. “Robby’s four.”

He smiles softly. “That’s a fun age.” He tilts his head slightly. “A good kid?”

“The best.” That’s the truth, at least.

“Maybe I could…I don’t know. Pay for your babysitter.”

“Are you offering me _money_ right now?” you spit.

His eyes widen. “No!” He shakes his head. “I mean, yes. But for another night off.”

You cringe at those words. _Night off._

Cap continues, “I can help you find another group.” He mutters, “One not run by an Avenger.”

You huff out a laugh. “I shouldn’t have come in the first place,” you say. You could have just as easily stayed home, maybe helped Robby build a snowman. You need to buy him new snow pants, you think distantly. He gets bigger every week.

You dab your eye with the back of your glove, absorbing the tears threatening to spill as you think about all the first times you’ll have with him, while your sister had all the last times. It still hurts, even after years.

“Do those people seriously not care that you were there when it all went down? That you could have prevented it, like Thanos or whatever the fuck?”

Steve Rogers clenches his jaw. “Believe it or not, you’re not the first person to be angry with me.” He shrugs slowly, looking somewhere over your shoulder. “Everyone else gave me a chance though. Stayed for at least a session.”

“Right. So they just…” You wave a hand around. “Forgave you?”

“I uh, I don’t think I need anyone to forgive me.” For a second, he looks at you sternly and seriously and sadly enough that you’re the one to shrink back this time. “It’s more about forgiving myself. That’s why I do it.”

“Oh.”

He studies you, look softening a little. “And maybe if people see that I can forgive myself, they can forgive themselves too.”

You shiver from the cold. “Maybe.”

“You gonna come inside?” His eyes flit back to the center. “The guys in there…they’re good company.”

You shake your head. “I embarrassed myself. I shouldn’t.” Your fingers close around the car keys in your pocket, thumb finding the unlock button. “Sorry.” You mean it. You side step, getting a glimpse of your car, but he blocks you again.

“If you’re going, can I have your number?” He pulls out his phone.

Surprising yourself, you laugh. You think about your younger self, fawning over handsome Captain America saving New York on your TV. She would have freaked out to even see Steve Rogers in real life, let alone give him her phone number. “So you can suggest a new therapy group for me, right?”

He clears his throat. “Right.”

Your hand shakes when you take out your phone. “Okay. My name’s—”

His other hand comes out of his pocket, revealing your crumpled up name tag. “Already got it.”

You watch him type in your number and text you with a simple _It’s Steve_. You make yourself focus on his fingers moving, not the way he’s kind of smiling to himself. You add the new contact in your phone, setting the name as the American flag emoji.

“If you ever need anyone to talk to…” He shrugs. “Or even babysit. I’m okay with kids.”

“Uh-huh.” You sniffle. It’s all a little too much now. Your chest feels tight, so you go with a joke in an attempt to dissolve the tension. “Do you also want my Venmo? Assuming you’re serious about that babysitting money.”

He grins now, tapping again at his phone. You admire the way he glows by the light of the screen. “Yeah. Gimme your Venmo.”


	2. friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> steve meets your nephew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh idk if you can consider them “enemies” in part 1 but maybe “antagonists”? antagonists to friends to lovers? anyway, here’s the friends part. pining, baby!!! banter!!
> 
> heavily inspired by one of musical theater’s god tier Pining & Yearning™ songs: this is life (bandstand)

“You cannot fuck this up, Rogers.”

“When have I ever fucked up?” he asks with a smile.

You chew on your lip. “Seriously. You’re his favorite Avenger.” 

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…Wait.” He turns towards you. “Do you really think I’m gonna fuck this up?” He tries to ask casually, but there’s no mistaking the slight concern in his voice.

“All I know is that if I introduce him to Captain America and he gets disappointed, I’m going down as the worst aunt in the history of the universe.”

You swing your legs as you sit on a concrete partition outside the building where Robby attends swim lessons. Other parents stand around looking at their phones, most of them older than you. Steve leans next to you, occasionally brushing your knee with his arm as he shifts nervously. He keeps his eyes dutifully trained to the ground, a baseball cap and sunglasses inappropriate for the cloudy spring weather obscuring his face.

“So…?” Steve glances up as a small child walks out the glass doors and into the arms of her father. “Who is it?”

You’re confused. “What?”

“Who’s your favorite Avenger?” He laughs, like it’s the most obvious question.

“I don’t have one.” You wish your nephew would come out one of those doors right now.

“Bullshit. Everyone has a favorite Avenger.”

“I don’t idolize superheroes,” you say, feigning haughtiness. “They’re people at best, and a hugely destabilizing force in our global society at worst.”

“Is that right?” He doesn’t look at you, but you can hear him smiling.

“Yep.”

“It’s Banner, isn’t it?” He faces you, fake accusatory. “No. Natasha?”

You roll your eyes. “Jesus, Rogers.” 

“ _Jesus_ is your favorite Avenger?”

“Shut—” You knock hard on the rim of his baseball cap, and his hand comes up to make sure you don’t accidentally send it flying to the ground. “The hell—” you snap, “up.” 

Your shared laughter catches the attention of the other parents waiting to pick up their kids. You settle down a bit and gently rub a hand on his big shoulder.

“Just so you know, you don’t have to do this. I would hate for you to feel exploited just because I want to score cool points with my nephew.” 

He puffs up his chest like a jock and says nonchalantly, “It’s always nice to meet a fan.” 

“Ugh,” you moan. “I hate you.”

“I’m kidding,” he says, offering his arm to help you down from the partition when a bunch of kids start spilling out the doors. “I wanna meet him. You’ve told me so much about him.”

You spot your nephew’s messy head of hair, looking a little damp, and breathe in deeply. “Here we go.”

— — — 

Robby doesn’t stop talking the entire walk to the nearby park. He clutches two of Steve’s fingers in his little hand while asking rapid questions about the other Avengers, where Steve lives, what he does now, to the point where you almost feel embarrassed. But Steve, thankfully, treats him like a person, and answers his questions good-naturedly. 

Along the way, you pass by a few touristy gift shops before finally stopping at one. “Hey, I have an idea.” You look to Steve. “Stay out here with him?”

He tilts his sunglasses down. “We can’t come with you?” His eyes widen and he side-eyes an oblivious Robby, which you know is a minor distress signal at the idea of being left alone with your kid. You giggle, because he has handled everything well so far. 

“It’ll take 5 minutes, Cap. Try to lay low.”

You leave the two boys outside and push open the door, the bell tinkling. With the shop owner the only person occupying the entire store, you feel a little silly for making Steve wait outside, but you’d like to minimize any risk today.

Steve tends to get…harassed in public. Not all the time, because plenty of people still admire him enough to want his autograph, or at least have the decency to not openly voice their distaste, which you admittedly did when you first met him.

But other times the glasses and the baseball cap do nothing to mask the superhuman physique of your friend from hostile strangers. Most just call him an asshole in passing, and a few brave ones throw punches. But all of them, like you at first, can’t see the red-white-and-blue Star Spangled Man with a Plan. 

They just see red. Destroyed families, dead friends, dust. 

You don’t want your nephew to witness any of that, ever. Whenever it happens and you’re by Steve’s side, you want to disappear behind his wide frame. And Steve, always braver than you, somehow manages to take deep breaths and adopt a level voice in a confrontation. 

With one exception. You had both been ordering food at a cart when an angry-looking young man decided to go for the easier target: you. As soon as he laid a hand on your arm, you had to shut your eyes to the rageful way Steve shoved him back hard enough that he fell flat on the sidewalk. _If you’re angry, be angry with me. Don’t fucking touch her._

You swallow, shake your head, and look around for what you came for. It’s in a bin on the floor, deeply discounted. 

Steve is squatting at your nephew’s height when you come out. “Hey,” he says softly as you stuff the receipt in your purse. He grabs Robby’s legs and picks him up like he weighs nothing. “What’d you get?”

You pull out a plastic Captain America shield frisbee and wave it at Steve, enjoying the warmth of his laughter.

Ten minutes later, you find yourself playing Monkey in the Middle at the park. Robby—all three feet or so of him—insists on being the monkey, so you and Steve toss the disc lower than you usually would to give him a chance. He giggles like a maniac, spinning in circles to try and grab the frisbee out of the air, and it makes your heart warm.

“How many aliens have you seen?”

You flinch again when the frisbee whizzes almost directly into your hand. Steve, of course, has flawless accuracy.

“I don’t know, buddy. Hundreds. Maybe a thousand.” You throw the disc back, and smile at how Robby doesn’t even go for it, his eyes fixed on his hero.

He pants a little, clearly getting tired. You wish you had bought him water at the gift shop. “Is your shield heavy?”

“Not to me.” He throws the frisbee to you, a little softer this time. “I bet it’s not heavy for you, you seem like a very strong four-year-old.”

“Thank you. I am very strong. Right?” Robby grins at you.

“Yes you are, little man.” You would call him _baby_ , but you don’t want to embarrass him.

You’re tossing it back to Steve when he poses another question. “Were you scared when you fought the bad guys?”

Steve pauses long enough before returning the frisbee that you give him a concerned look. He gazes at you while he admits, “Yeah. That’s kind of a big secret us adults keep. We’re scared way more often than you’d think.”

“Huh. I bet Thor isn’t scared of anything!”

— — — 

You all eat a quick lunch at a sandwich shop while Steve asks your nephew about all the things he likes to do. By the time you’ve walked to the car and strapped Robby back into his seat, he’s dead asleep. When you yawn too, Steve insists on driving you back to your apartment.

“But…your motorcycle.” He’d parked it somewhere before he met you this morning. “How are you gonna get home?” 

“Don’t worry about it.” He moves the driver’s seat back from its usual position and climbs in.

“Thanks for today, Cap,” you say, your tone purposely light as he adjusts the mirrors. You let yourself admire his arm muscles, obvious under his long sleeves, as he starts the car and grips the wheel. 

“It was great.” He hums. “He’s very funny.”

You don’t know what else to say on the drive home, especially when he navigates the streets to your apartment without you giving directions. Steve has driven this route a dozen times. Given you a ride to the community center so you could attend sessions now and then. Accompanied you to get drinks or watch movies on the nights you got a babysitter. Walked you around New York and talked about his distant childhood with Bucky Barnes.

All this from a comfortable distance. You’d made sure to make fun of him often, elbow his ribs when people clearly hit on him, and punch his shoulder like a dudebro when his earnestness became too much for you to handle. 

But he knows your nephew now, and you feel the distance coming to a close.

He breaks the silence. “Get a coffee with me sometime.”

You refuse to look at him, staring down at the plastic shield you picked up just to have something to do with your hands. “Okay. Tomorrow?” 

“Really?”

Your throat feels dry. “Sure thing, pal.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “C’mon. On a date.”

You want to shrink into the car seat. You shouldn’t have taken his offer to drive you. You frown and flip the frisbee around in your hands. “Rogers…why the hell do you keep asking me out?”

He braces the console between you, glancing back at your sleeping nephew. “Watch your language,” he jokes.

You study his hand, pale skin contrasting against the dark interior of your car. You could easily put yours over his. Interlock fingers or something else equally idiotic. You squeeze the shield.

Then he clears his throat. “It’s ‘cause I like you.” He says it so matter-of-factly that it almost annoys you. “Also, you’ve also never really said no. You just change the subject or come up with some excuse.”

He’s not wrong. 

“Does it upset you?” You look up and immediately regret seeing the meaningful look on his face, the worry creasing around his blue eyes. He blinks at you, before turning back to the windshield. “When I ask?”

“Um…no. But, you know there’s no way we can ever become a _thing,_ right?”

“Why not?” 

He just doesn’t _see_ it, not like you do. “Rogers, I’m effectively a single mom. I’m barely holding it together. And you’re a superhero!” You turn to watch the passenger window for a few seconds. “How would that even work? Like, are we supposed to schedule dinner dates around Robby’s swim lessons and your job slaying aliens?”

He chuckles. “It’s just a coffee date. Doesn’t have to turn into a whole thing.” He’s trying to hide it, but to your ears he sounds pathetically unconvinced.

You mumble, “You’re so full of shit, Cap.”

“You need to stop swearing in front of the kid,” he admonishes jokingly, but he knows you’re right. “So…should I stop asking?” 

You should definitely say yes. Otherwise you’d feel guilty and selfish and stupid. So—like a dumbass—you say, “No.” _Fuck_. 

“Okay, I’ll keep asking.” He smirks as he makes the turn onto your block. He steals the frisbee off your lap without even looking, spinning it around his pointer finger. “Only if you admit that I’m your favorite Avenger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> talk to me on tumblr! @rodrikstark


	3. lovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic isn’t smutty, but she has her ~sexy~ moments
> 
> i’m incredibly attached to this story and am sad to end it. thank you for reading and leaving kind comments <3

You finally relent to Steve Rogers asking you out when he buzzes your apartment in the middle of the night—with burned hands, scraped skin, and ashes in his golden hair.

“What the actual fuck is wrong with you?” you whisper-yell. You drop towels, an old bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and a half-empty box of Spongebob bandages onto your coffee table. Always considerate of how you keep your place clean, he toes off his boots, as if he hadn’t already leaned on your doorframe and smudged it with dark red blood. He lays out a towel on your couch before falling back onto it with a thud.

You kneel next to him. “Goddamn burning building and you’re like, yeah, let me go fuck around in there for a little bit.” You’re freaking out, but he seems so unaffected by it all, an almost dopey smile on his face when he looks up at you. You dab at his bleeding forehead with another towel. “Absolute piece of shit. Scaring me to death.”

“You kiss your nephew with that mouth?”

He’s looking at your lips, so boldly inappropriate at a time like this that you sit back on your heels to keep yourself away from the heat of his gaze. But you have to scooch back toward him; the blood keeps trickling down his forehead. You press the corner of the fabric to the wound and avoid looking in his eyes, instead fixating on the slope of his nose. “Why are you here?”

“My place is too far away. Bike’s busted.” 

“But why are you _here_? Shouldn’t you go to a doctor?”

“Don’t need one.” He tugs at your waist, happy to encounter little resistance as he positions you to straddle his thigh. “Got you.”

Tears sting at the corner of your eyes. You’ve seen plenty of cuts and bruises on him, but is he fireproof? What if he hit his head? Does Captain America get concussions?

“Don’t say that, you…fuckface.” He laughs, and you want to poke his chest hard, but you don’t know what kind of hurt hides underneath his blackened suit. “I’m not a medical professional. Is any of this serious?” You genuinely don’t know.

His smile drops when he hears your voice crack at the question. “Hey, I’m gonna be fine by morning. Really.” He pauses. “Shit, I’m sorry. Don’t cry.”

You won’t cry. You can hold it in. You’ve _been_ holding it in, any time you’ve felt like crying in front of him since you first met, that night you almost lost it on the sidewalk. 

He has cried in front of you. Once. On Bucky’s birthday. Steve took you out to a bar to celebrate his friend’s life, which seemed useless, because he couldn’t even get drunk, and even though you never knew Barnes as anything but the terrorist Winter Soldier before meeting Steve, you toasted him with every drink his best friend bought you.

Maybe he thought your giggly half-drunkenness and the dim lighting of the bar would blind you to his hurt, but you watched the shiny tears fall off the edge of his jaw from across the booth. You moved to sit next to him and lean your head on his shoulder. _Can see the TV better from this angle,_ was your weak excuse.

You’d had the strangest urge to crawl underneath his thick sweater then, touch his bare skin, and comfort him however you could.

So, you’re definitely not crying tonight. He said it’s not serious. He simply arrived at your apartment to _hang out_ , not even an hour after saving dozens of people from a burning complex five blocks away. Like friends do. You brush some of the ash from his hair, not caring that it gets all over your couch. You sniffle and blink fast.

He strokes your waist with his thumbs. “Hey, _hey_. I didn’t mean to…I just…wanted to see you.” You press firmer on the head wound.

He brings one reddish hand to the back of your bare thigh, stroking up, and down, and finally—confidently— _up_ again. He stops, squeezes there. “Always wanna see you.”

His voice sounds scratchier than usual. Did he inhale a lot of smoke? _Jesus_. You have no idea what you’re doing, why you let him into your apartment tonight, or into your life at all. 

He knows you won’t say anything in response to that admission, so he pivots. “I was thinking I could use your shower and sleep on your couch.” He does smell overwhelmingly of smoke. Probably why your eyes keep watering.

“Of course.” You glance at your bathroom and let out an unsteady exhale. “Um, actually, I’ll sleep on the couch, I do it all the time and I’m smaller than you. And if you’re sore, maybe you should take a bath instead. It’s a tiny tub…” You turn back to him, wondering if you’ll need to help him take off his suit. “Are you burned anywhere else besides your hands?” He can’t take a hot bath if he’s burned. 

“Nah.” 

“Okay. I’ll go run the water now.”

But you can’t. 

His hands move to grab at your hips, a couple of his long fingers clumsily slipping underneath your little pajama shorts. He pulls you closer, slowly, down the length of his solid thigh, as he props his foot up on your coffee table, so you can’t fight the pull of gravity and the pull of _him_ trapping you against his chest. 

“And then in the morning we’ll finally grab that coffee, yeah?” He glances between your eyes and your lips for what feels like too long, before pressing his forehead down on your shoulder, like he can’t quite bear to look at you.

You’re terrified that his low, rumbly voice will shake the whole apartment, send all your cheap shit toppling to the floor, wake your nephew. With two fingers, you tug at the stiff suit collar at the back of his neck, trying to see if there’s a zipper, but mostly hoping he’ll take it as a signal to stop talking. He raises his head.

“Steve.”

The soot on his face makes his blue eyes pop. 

You’re way too close to him. 

“Hey.” A strong hand moves to delicately push a strand of hair back behind your ear. You shut your eyes and feel a tear run down your face. His thumb feels hot against your cheek when he wipes it away. “You called me Steve.”

— — — 

You both make the short walk to a cafe after dropping off Robby. Once inside, you stubbornly point him to a table to sit down while you order. As soon as you set down your drinks and slide into the chair across from Steve, he takes your hand. His skin already feels smooth, halfway healed. “Pretty nervous for this first date,” he laughs.

You laugh too, but you are nervous. Nervous that someone will see past the civilian disguise that you picked up from Steve’s place shortly after ordering him to get in the bathtub. _I’m not getting in there with you, you perv._

Nervous about having to pick up Robby from swim lessons and answer all the questions you previously dodged after he saw Captain America sleeping in your bed this morning. 

Nervous about the next time there’s a smoldering, collapsing building on the news, or an active shooter, or an alien invasion. Steve will inevitably decide he needs to be the hero. 

Maybe you should have kept a level head and not agreed to this date last night. 

“Baby.” He frowns. “You here with me?”

Your vision clears; you focus on him. “Oh, we’re doing nicknames?” 

“Are you not into ‘baby’?” He blushes. 

“That’s what I call Robby when you’re not around.”

“I thought you called him ‘little man’?”

“Didn’t wanna baby him around his favorite superhero.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Okay, ‘baby’ is out. Um, sweetheart? Honey?” He pauses for effect. “Toots?”

You physically cringe away at that, but he just holds your hand tighter. “Ew, Steve.” 

“I’ll call you whatever you want, my sexy little angel princess.” You pretend to gag. “As long as you promise you’ll never call me Rogers ever again.” 

On the couch last night, he got you to stop crying by asking you to say his name over and over again. Like he was making you pay for all the months you stiff-armed him to a safe distance with _Rogers_ and _Cap_ , even saluting him two or three times with a stern _Yes, sir_ because you knew it would piss him off. 

_Steve. Steven. Wait, what’s your middle name again? Steven Grant…That’s cute. Stevie._ He had thanked you each time you said it, kissing your tears away, and kept asking you to say it until you were rolling your eyes, going from affectionate to annoyed. _Stupid Steve._

He had chuckled at that. _You love me anyway._

— — — 

You leave the cafe holding hands. “Are we gonna keep joking around to avoid the subject?”

Steve’s brow furrows. “The subject…” He trails off.

“How the hell we’re gonna do this, Steve.” 

“I think the way we’re doing this now is just fine.” He doesn’t say it with as much conviction as he would like. He admits, “I don’t know how to do this either. And I would be mad at you for worrying about our future when you should just enjoy this coffee, but to be fair, I’m already mentally planning our second date as we speak. So buckle up, toots.” He clicks his tongue. “You’re in it for the long run.”

“You’re on thin ice with the ‘toots’ thing.”

He perks up. “Ice skating.” He brings your linked hands up to his mouth and kisses your knuckles. “Next date. Teach me to ice skate.”

You shake your head with a smile. “You don’t know how to ice skate?”

“I make it a point to avoid large bodies of ice.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?” You giggle when he squeezes your hand hard.

“Don’t wanna risk losing any more time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …two of my favorite tropes: finally calling them by their first name + hurt/comfort :’) steve rogers owns me entirely

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on tumblr! @rodrikstark


End file.
